


Life-threatening

by mcicioni



Category: Alarm für Cobra 11
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unofficial coda to the episode "Begraben" (Buried), where Ben is locked in a coffin and buried by the villain, and Semir & Co. rescue him at the very last minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life-threatening

"Buckle up, old man."

"Don't be cheeky, or I'll bury you all over again."

Semir and Ben grinned at each other, Ben put his foot down, and the Ferrari roared off towards Cologne. Silence was easy as each of them savoured the experience of flying along the highway without being in pursuit or pursued; the sun was shining, the asphalt was flowing under the wheels, the revs shot up at the slightest touch of Ben's foot on the gas pedal. They exchanged happy glances as each bend was approached and conquered by the steady power of the racing car, as adrenalin surged through their veins, as life, almost lost, reasserted itself.

Ben breathed in deeply, grass and wind and asphalt and car fumes and all-powerful freedom. But as he breathed out he saw himself back in the coffin, the oxygen running out, the cold seeping through his body, rainwater beginning to drip through the wood of the lid and with it the certainty that this was it, the good guys would never find him, his life was over. Water rising second by second and his strength waning minute by minute, he'd felt a desperate longing for all the experiences he'd had and loved, and that he would never have again. No more cello, no more singing, no more riffs blooming through his fingers on the chords of his guitar. No more fresh fruit, no more kebabs eaten on the run, no more Italian trattorie. No more Harley rides on country roads, the bike between his thighs like a frisky horse, to be spurred or reined in, to be given its head on long straight stretches. No more shared jokes with Julia, no more dissecting their father late at night, her comforting voice warming the phone close to his ear.

And no more Semir. No more adrenalin-fuelled car chases, no more arguments, no more tussles. No more collapsing against each other after each narrow escape, no more teasing each other about the differences in age, class, origins, no more standing by each other when facing Chief Inspectors, public prosecutors, Crime Squad detectives. No more total trust, deeper than he'd ever felt for anyone else.

 _I want Semir_ had burst in his head as the water was rising to his chest. _I want Semir_ had exploded in his guts as he was fighting for his last breath. _I want Semir_ had been his final flash of thought, before the water covered him and he went under and everything went black until Semir's hands grabbed him and dragged him up, towards muddy grass and rain and wind and life.

Ben's fingers tightened on the wheel and he coughed and inhaled, as he had when the lid of the coffin had been ripped off and air had burst into his lungs and he had choked and sputtered and finally, finally breathed. Semir's arms were around him, holding him tight against his chest, and he had shaken and flailed and clutched Semir's neck and held on and whispered "Thanks," and the two of them had remained sitting in the water for a long time, just holding on to each other without saying anything, Semir's lips brushing against Ben's forehead.

 _I want Semir_ , Ben repeated silently to himself – alive, fully conscious and looking straight ahead at the road, because the last thing he needed right now was to meet the eyes of Semir Gerkhan, devoted husband and father with a long line of ex-girlfriends. And with a working-class Turkish background plus a hair-trigger temper – a combination guaranteed to produce a lot of undesirable responses to any undesirable revelations.

Oh, shit.

 _You can't always get what you want_ , he heard a voice at the back of his mind, the inner voice that had scolded and mocked him for twenty-five or so of his thirty-one years. _You can't always get what you want_ , it sang in falsetto, in a fair imitation of the chorus in the Stones song.

 _Go away_ , Ben told it wearily, knowing that it wouldn't. He pressed the gas pedal a fraction harder, the car shot forward with a roar, and Semir gave him a long sideways look. "Sporty driving," he commented drily.

"Sorry," Ben said lightly, back in control in spite of tiredness beginning to pull on his muscles and eyelids.

"Almost there," Semir's voice was regretful as he glanced at the highway sign. "Next exit."

"I know." Almost there, and then he'd be in his flat, he'd shower and crash, and Semir would go home to Andrea and Aida, tell Andrea all about it, play with Aida and go to sleep in Andrea's arms. _Yes, of course he will, they're his family._ The damned voice again, cool and sharp. _Semir's given you his friendship. Take it and be grateful. Don't ask for more._

Ben refused to argue any further. _Yeah, all right. Will you shut up now?_

 _Just one more thing. Draw back before you give yourself away._ The singing slowly faded: _You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you just might find you get what you need._

 _OK, OK._ Ben overtook an articulated truck, just the tiniest movement of his fingers on the wheel and his feet on the pedals, a miracle of smoothness if perhaps a trifle too close to the overtaken vehicle.

"Hey, Schumacher.You don't want to injure the Acting Chief Inspector just before the new Chief Inspector turns up." Semir gave him another sidelong look. Ben glanced back at him and slowed down just a little on the exit ramp. Ten minutes later, they bade farewell to the Ferrari in the garage of its late, unlamented owner, and Ben wordlessly slid into the passenger seat of Semir's BMW, fastened his seat belt, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

He reopened them as Semir was pulling into the car park of Ben's apartment block

"Thanks, partner," Ben muttered, fuzzy-headed. "For everything." He got out and shut the passenger door. "I'll be all right now. Really I will. Good night."

"Good night nothing." Semir turned off the engine, got out and extended a hand. "Keys." He strode ahead, leaving Ben to follow.

By the time Ben drifted in, Semir was standing in front of the cooker, pricking sausages with a fork. Bread was out of the box, eggs and milk out of the fridge.

"Are you out of your mind? What . . ."

"Go and shower," Semir said, without turning.

"Yeah, Dad." The familiar joke sounded as tired as Ben was feeling. But once he was under the strong hot jet of the shower, exhaustion washing off him with the dust of the coffin and the mud of the field, what he'd just said hit him, hard, right in the solar plexus.

_Of course. You've got problems with your father. And Semir's what, eleven, twelve years older than you. And he's got a daughter and would also like a son._

_Maybe._ As he towelled off, he thought how much safer it would be to think in terms of symbolic father and son. Forget how much he wanted to smooth the three vertical lines that formed between Semir's eyebrows when something wasn't quite right, forget the little shivers of physical pleasure that ran through his body on the infrequent occasions Semir looked him up and down with unqualified approval. Forget the warmth that lingered on his back when Semir slapped it or on his chest when Semir restrained him. Forget the times when he was between girlfriends and pleasured himself, and – just before he came – the soft images of breasts and thighs and rounded backsides blurred into images of a crew-cut, a mustache and an amazing amount of energy packed into a body that wasn't quite 1.60 metres tall.

Forget all the times that these thoughts had been shoved to the back of his mind as soon as they'd flashed through it. Ben Jäger – the Don Juan of the Highway Police, chaser of anything in skirts, inventor of preposterous pick-up lines that sometimes actually worked – had a reputation to keep, and the fact that there had been men as well as women in his past lives as a student and a musician was private, confidential, nobody's business.

And right now he'd have liked nothing better than to hide in a room where he could close the door, but in his open-plan flat there were only the front door and the bathroom door. And he couldn't hide in the bathroom for ever. He grimaced at his face in the mirror, found a comradely-even-when-exhausted expression somewhere, put it on, and sauntered back into the living-eating-sleeping area.

The smell of fresh coffee, sausages and eggs instantly changed his expression to ravenous. He raised an eyebrow at the fairly orderly way plates and cutlery had been laid out, and Semir raised an eyebrow in response: "Eat."

They had eaten together so many times – sandwiches in the car, pizzas or kebabs in the office, lovely meals cooked by Andrea at Semir's house. No reason this should be any different, Ben repeated to himself as he wolfed down everything on his plate, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the food. Semir was staring at him, and Ben felt the gaze on every pore of his skin, but it was all about symbolic fathers and sons, all he needed to do was acknowledge this and behave accordingly.

He raised his eyes. "Aren't you eating?"

"Not hungry," Semir replied dismissively.

"You must be," Ben said, blinking. "Hotte told me you've lived on just coffee and chocolate bars for the past twenty-four hours."

"So?"

Ben laughed at the amount of belligerence Semir could pack into one syllable. "So nothing. So thank you. Again."

Semir's eyes went dark. "Don't. Don't thank me." He looked away, stood up and went to put his empty coffee cup into the sink.

Ben threw knife and fork on the table, ignoring the inner voice that was begging him to calm down. "Look, I'm fed up with all your Turkish macho man monosyllables, I know you like Westerns, it's typical of your generation, but I belong to the _next_ one," _there,_ he sneered to his inner voice, _I said it out loud, happy now?_ "so, enough with the Clint Eastwood impersonation, all right? Or maybe I should've said the Bruce Willis impersonation, considering." He ignored the patented Gerkhan glare, stopped to take a breath, got up and faced Semir, glad of the advantage his height gave him. "If you want to tear a strip off me for going off on my own and getting captured, just go ahead, I know you've been dying to, that's what you . . ." He took one look at Semir's face and the rest of the sentence dried up in his mouth.

"That's not what I do," Semir said, voice low and rough, eyes black with images of past events of which Ben knew nothing but fragments gleaned from Engelhardt or Hotte or Hartmut. "What I do to my partners is watch them die and bury them, one after another. André Fux, you've heard of him?" Ben nodded quickly, listening with every cell in his body as Semir's memories poured out. "I was hanging out of a helicopter when the man we were after blasted him off a boat, he got a fucking speargun out of nowhere and I just saw André fall into the sea with a harpoon stuck in his chest, and I shot the bastard and jumped off the helicopter into the water, and there was nothing, nothing, for hours and hours. And Tom . . ." Ben nodded again. He'd seen pictures of Tom Kranich, knew that he had been Semir's partner for six years. "I was too fucking late, I ran down the corridors and opened the front door and there he was, lying on his back in the courtyard under the rain, and he was still alive when I got to him, I lifted him up a little and he said _Who's going to look after you now_ and spat out some blood and died, and I sat there with him in my arms and his blood on my jacket." His voice broke for a moment; he coughed, swallowed hard and went on, without looking at Ben. "Chris, I didn't even known Kalvus had shot him, I was just trying to get Kalvus, I managed to blow up their damned chopper and was all pleased with myself as I limped out of that warehouse, and Chris had three of Kalvus' bullets in him." He closed his eyes and was silent for a few seconds. Then he looked straight at Ben. "I didn't want another partner, ever. I'm the kiss of death to any man who works with me. Least of all I wanted _you_." He made a small wry grimace. "But you wouldn't take no for an answer. And today, I . . . " He shrugged. "Well. You're alive. That's enough." They were standing close to each other, feeling the heat of each other's bodies. Semir looked Ben up and down and spoke again, a small bubble of irony in his voice. "And for your information, my daughter is two years old, and I'm forty-three, and you're thirty-one if my memory serves me right, so if you need a father figure . . ."

"I don't," Ben interrupted.

_Don't you?_

_No. Right now it's the last thing I need._

"Good," Semir said shortly, and reached up to grab the back of Ben's neck, pulling him down towards him, and kissed him on the lips, briefly and fiercely, pressing his smaller, compact body full into Ben's for a couple of wonderful, exhilarating seconds. Then he took an abrupt step backwards. "Anyway." He collected his jacket, checked that his keys and mobile phone were still in his pockets and headed for the door. "Get some sleep. And stay home tomorrow," he threw over his shoulder. The door closed behind him, something between a click and a slam. Ben stood motionless, half smiling and half blinking, half wanting to race after Semir and half needing to collapse on the nearest chair until his legs stopped shaking.

_Well, well, well._

_Well nothing. Leave me alone. Please._

\- - - - - - - - -

"Inspector Jäger reporting for work right on time, in spite of rumours to the contrary that some colleagues have been spreading around." At 8.00 precisely the following morning, Ben strode into the Highway Police HQ, carrying a cardboard tray with five polystyrene cups of coffee. He distributed one each to Hotte, Dieter and Susanne and carried the last two into the office he shared with Semir.

"Good morning, partner." He placed one cup on Semir's desk, the other on his own, sat down and switched on his computer. "First of all I'll write my report about yesterday." He ignored both Semir's scowl at his arrival and the army of butterflies that was beginning to gather in his stomach.

He found the template, opened it and stared at it, biting his thumbnail. The undersigned Inspector Jäger reports . . . That he wouldn't be around today to tell the tale, if yesterday the rescuers had found him twenty seconds later? That he, once alone in his flat, had spent most of the night indulging in totally inappropriate fantasies about his senior partner, each one followed by an attack of angst and guilt over said partner's wife and daughter? That he doesn't have a fucking clue about what he should do and say right now?

He gulped some coffee, and when he looked up his eyes met Semir's. Before either of them could speak, Semir's mobile phone rang.

"Gerkhan. Kilometer 28? Right, we're on our way." Semir switched off his computer, got up, reached across and switched off Ben's computer as well. "Come on. I'll drive."

They caught, breathalised and booked a young woman who was still wearing last night's party dress and makeup and who had a blood alcohol content over 0.1. Then they tried to convince an elderly gentleman with a felt hat, thick glasses and a Bavarian accent that on the highway driving at 50 km an hour was more dangerous than driving at 200. Before midday they recovered a stolen security van, with no more damage to their own vehicle than a shattered headlight and a dented bonnet. Around mid-afternoon they had to rush to the A 575, where an articulated truck had jackknifed across two lanes and caused a multiple collision. The driver had suddenly lost control at over 100 km an hour; in his glove compartment Ben found a ziplock bag half full of speed tablets and a small foil envelope three-quarters full of coke.

At six o'clock the sun was almost setting. Semir drove in silence, past the place where he would have turned right if he had been heading for Ben's flat, straight ahead at the roundabout where he would have turned left if he'd been driving to his own house. He parked near one of the entrances to the Volksgarten, switched off the engine and got out: "Let's walk."

Ben watched him stride ahead as fast as if he were heading towards some accident scene, caught up with him and fell into step. The park was almost empty: the last mothers were telling their children to get off the slides and swings, and a couple of homeless men were rummaging in rubbish bins. A young woman who was closing up her sausage stand offered them a smile and the last two currywursts; Semir glanced a question at Ben, and Ben just shook his head. Familiar communication, no need for words, this was their friendship. And the butterflies in Ben's stomach started marching around in circles: was Semir about to suggest that this was best, that they should keep their friendship as it was, without even looking at other possibilities, because anything else would be too hard, too painful? And had something like this happened before? He needed to ask this question straight away. He touched Semir's shoulder, and Semir stopped in mid-stride and turned around.

Ben spoke fast, abruptly. "Not all your partners are dead. Jan Richter didn't die. He left."

Semir stared at him in silence for a long moment, the three vertical lines settling between his eyebrows. "Yeah. His sister and niece had moved to Munich, and he decided to join them."

"Not long after you got married," Ben said.

Semir started walking again, and Ben walked in step with him, waiting.

"He was young. Impulsive. Made _Star Trek_ jokes." A little lopsided smile. "And he told me that he was . . . interested in me."

"And you told him that you were straight," Ben blurted out.

"No. I told him that I was going to marry Andrea. He was best man at my wedding. And when I came back from the honeymoon he wasn't around any more – he'd asked for an urgent transfer." Semir stopped under a tree, apparently unaware that the leaves were rustling in the evening breeze and sprinkling the remains of the previous day's rainstorm on his head and clothes.

"Right." Ben stood motionless in front of the tree, afraid of saying anything else. Then he heard again the words they had just exchanged, _"And you told him that you were straight." "No."_

He swallowed hard, trying to cope with the new, exciting, scary knowledge. "You've been with men. Your misspent youth. You never said."

"What's this, an interrogation?" But Semir's mouth was twitching a little under his mustache. "A few. Yes. No point, past history. But I did tell Jan. When I explained to him that I could only be involved with one person at a time, and that this person for me was going to be Andrea. For the rest of my life."

Ben's airways constricted; he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to breathe deeply. _What else did you expect? Draw back now, it's not too late._ He thought about a sunny afternoon by the Rhine, a few weeks earlier, Semir and Andrea on the riverbank, talking about their marriage and finally kissing and making up, while he was teaching Aida how to steer her new toy car and shoving back whatever murky feelings were mixing with his pleasure at being there with them. "All right. Thank you for telling me. It's starting to drizzle again, let's walk back to the car."

"Hear me out," Semir snapped, and grabbed Ben by an arm. "I haven't finished." He waited for Ben's nod, without letting go of his arm. "When André died, I felt useless. I took some days off and thought about getting out of the force, and then I thought no, my job's my life, I've got to go back. When Tom died," his eyes clouded, "I was alone for months, years. I had Andrea and the baby, but I'd lost the best friend I'd ever had. After Chris, all I wanted was revenge, you know that because you were right there with me." He let go of Ben's arm and just stared at him. "And yesterday, when I saw you on Mahler's computer screen, I . . ."

"You thought, no, not the fourth one."

"If you interrupt me again I'm going to hit you, I mean it." Ben muttered "Sorry" and shut up. Semir made a short sound of approval and then hesitated, as if he couldn't find the words in either of his languages. "Yes, that, of course. And the kind of death Mahler had planned, of all possible . . ." He stopped, looked away, and then looked right into Ben's eyes and spoke fast, unhesitatingly. "But when I saw you lying there I knew something else as well. That I needed you. More than I'd ever needed André and Chris and Tom. I needed you in my life. As much as Andrea and Aida. Just as much. When I said to Jan that I could only have one person at a time, I meant it. But things have changed." He crossed his arms on his chest. "I have changed." He took a long, deep breath. "I've finished. Now you may speak. Or walk away. Or ask for a transfer. Go ahead. "

"I think I need to sit down," Ben muttered, heading for a small pagoda in the middle of a lawn. He sank down onto one of the damp benches, trying to calm down his racing heartbeat, only half aware of Semir plonking himself down next to him.

"Well?" Semir asked after they'd spent a minute staring alternately at each other and at their muddy shoes.

"So it isn't about symbolic fathers and sons," Ben said slowly.

"No, it isn't about fucking fathers and sons, symbolic or real or whatever," Semir's raised voice startled Ben only a little, he was quite used to Semir's outbursts by now, "What total crap, pop psychology straight out of the letters page of _Freundin_ , I don't want to hear about it ever again, ok?" He stopped, glanced at Ben, shrugged, lowered his voice. "How can I get through to you?" He stopped again, thought for a second and laughed briefly. "Listen. Remember a few weeks ago, when I was going through that bad patch with Andrea . . ." Ben nodded, remembering his confusion and his wish to do the right thing. "You and I were questioning people on that building site, and you played marriage counsellor and suggested I should tell her that I loved her, right? I followed the advice, because it was good." Semir took another deep breath and turned fully towards him, unsmiling. "I love you. Differently from Andrea. But just as much."

"Show me," Ben said, a smile breaking out all over his face, the butterflies inside him fluttering and waltzing and dipping and soaring. He cupped Semir's face with steady hands, his thumbs stroking soft stubble and skin just beginning to lose the tightness of youth, and parted his lips to take Semir's. _Sometimes you just might find you get what you need_ , he thought, and laughed softly against Semir's mouth. Semir frowned a little then laughed as well, and Ben seized his chance and let his tongue slide into Semir's mouth, and there were surprise and delight in Semir's little gasp, maybe what he'd done with other boys in his misspent youth – for a second Ben wondered about Tayfun Yilmaz, then cast aside that thought for ever – hadn't included kissing.

"I love you," Semir whispered again, to himself as much as Ben, his breath caressing Ben's lips, "for all it's worth." Ben smiled mischievously: "Well, I'm a good prospect," he said, lifting one hand from Semir's jaw and gesturing grandly, "Upper-class family. Education. Musical talent. Professional competence. Amazing driving skills. A great sense of humour .. ."

". . . and incredible modesty," Semir drawled, and pulled Ben closer and kissed him hard, then moved his lips down Ben's neck and throat, tickling the soft skin below Ben's adam's apple with his mustache and one teasing fingertip, and Ben was instantly hard, a thousand hot shivers running from his neck to the tips of his toes. He glanced towards the crotch of Semir's jeans, and what he saw there filled him with joy; he shifted his body just enough for the bulge between his legs to touch Semir's thigh and brushed a hand lightly below Semir's belt.

Semir's eyes narrowed with desire. He made a low moaning sound, then sighed, opened his eyes and pulled away. Ben smiled: "My place?"

"No." Semir ran a slow finger down Ben's forearm. "I'm driving you to your place, then I'm going home. To put Aida to bed and then talk to Andrea."

"Oh."

"Oh," Semir repeated firmly. "She needs to know. _Before._ "

"You're right," Ben said after a moment. "Anything else would be . . ." He shook his head at himself, at his own stupidity. "She'll be hurt," he whispered. "Does she know about your misspent youth?"

"Yes." Semir got up, a little unsteady on his feet. "She's known for a long time." Ben's guts contracted in a brief spasm of jealousy. "She may ask me to choose," Semir continued. "She may leave. She may throw me out. Things will get messy. But the alternative is . . ." He ran a hand over his face.

"Things are already messy," Ben said. "And they can easily get messier, the people upstairs will have one of us transferred out the moment they learn what's going on."

"We'll cross each bridge when we come to it," Semir shrugged. "That's what we do all the time. Come on. Up." He grabbed Ben's hand and pulled him up effortlessly. "Let's get moving."

"Yeah, Dad," Ben said under his breath, quickly stepping out of Semir's reach, and thinking that he could never say it to anyone, Semir least of all, but the symbolic father stuff sometimes could be thrilling if the other stuff was there as well.

If. _If._

Always ifs, always risks. He thought of a line from a poem by Erich Kästner that he had loved as a teenager, and said it aloud with a small shrug: " _But let's be honest: living is always . . ._ "

" _. . . life-threatening_. We should know." Semir half-smiled as he completed the quote, opening his arms a little in a gesture of resignation. Ben blinked, then remembered that Semir was German at least as much as he was Turkish and half-smiled back.

Semir's mobile phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. "Hello, Andrea. Just going to drive Ben home, I'll see you in half an hour. . . Kiss Aida for me. Yeah, her teddybear too. See you both soon. Bye."

Ben ran a hand through his hair. _Maybe it's not too late to get out, even now_ , the inner voice suggested. But Semir lifted a hand and laid it on the back of Ben's neck, and the touch was warm and sent electric sparks all the way down Ben's spine. _It is too late. I'll pay the price, whatever it is_.

They walked back to the car, their arms brushing. Semir switched the engine on and they drove away in silence. "I'll see you tomorrow," Semir said quietly before he turned into Ben's street. He changed down and left his hand on the knob of the gearstick.

Ben covered it with his own hand for a second. "Count on it," he said, looking ahead at the street in the beam of the car's headlights. It was drizzling, the street was neither dry nor wet, or maybe it was both at once. And a few streetlights were on, it was neither dark nor light, or maybe both at once. "Count on it."

\- end -


End file.
